Food shopping
by xLaramiex
Summary: Martin never knows what to buy. CW for ED-like behaviour.
1. Chapter 1

The first time Martin went shopping with his dad, he was 6. It was a Saturday, his mum was ill, and his dad wanted to get him out of the way.

They had entered the corner shop together, Dad with an affectionate hand on Martin's shoulder even as he told the young boy sternly not to touch anything. Martin slipped out from under the guiding hand and wandered around the cramped little shop, looking at the cans of beans, containers of dried fruit, piles of day-old bread and a selection of cream-filled pastries under a piece of muslin to keep the flies off. Martin stared at them, then slunk shyly back to his father - who was haggling with the shopkeeper over the cost of a large slice of ham - and pulled on his jacket.

"Can I have a cream cake?" he whispered, his body turned away from the shopkeeper to create a safe space for him to speak.

Dad scowled down at him. "No you can't, you greedy boy. Go and wait outside."

Baffled, Martin did as he was told and leant against the cold wall. Within minutes, misty November drizzle clung to his eyelashes and made him shudder.

He should not have asked for that cream cake.

When Dad left the shop, Martin pushed off from the wall (it would not do to let his father see him slouching). Mr Crieff clipped him round the ear as he led him away.

"Don't show me up like that again," his dad said fiercely. It was not until years later that Martin understood that his dad was embarrassed. All his 6-year-old ears could hear was the anger. "We don't need people knowing we can't afford a cake."

"Sorry dad," Martin murmured dutifully.

* * *

It was not long before the corner shop gave way to the might of the supermarket. Martin would listen to his father bemoan the decline of the friendly shopkeeper, while taking full advantage of the savings the larger, impersonal stores afforded them.

Martin's mother always preferred to shop alone, but as it became more acceptable for men to do the food shopping, Martin would sometimes accompany his father. He had a vivid memory of being an adolescent, watching his father trying to decide which brand of kitchen roll was cheaper (something he always resented buying - tea towels, after all, only had to be bought once, and then they were free, but Martin's mother liked to have some on hand).

Before they left on these trips, Mr Crieff would check the food left in the kitchen, and scowl and shout if any of the fresh vegetables had been allowed to go furry, or if there were blue flecks of mould in the bread. He once found a decaying apple underneath the potatoes and refused to buy any fruit for a year, lest they allow such waste to happen again.

"Fresh food is a luxury," he used to say to the three kids. "And I'll be damned if I let you ungrateful lot waste it."

* * *

Martin leant against the wall round the side of Tesco, reminded painfully of another shopping trip, another shop. Already he could feel his heart speeding up. He so hated shopping.

He took a deep breath and pushed off from the wall, forcing himself into the brightly lit supermarket. He snagged a basket on the way in and headed to the fresh vegetable aisles. He dithered, as always, looking at four different ways of buying carrots, and leeks, onions, broccoli, green beans spinachlettucerocketsweetcorntoomuchtoomuch

Martin burst out of the aisle, gasping, the knowledge that he was blushing only making his face feel hotter. He had been catapulted into the dairy aisle, so he closed his eyes, counted to ten and picked up a pint of his usual milk (it tasted like water, but it was the cheapest).

He had tried shopping online but the guilt of spending money on something as** unnecessary, wasteful** as food overcame him, and every time he clicked off it empty-handed. At least in the shop he had the fear of walking out empty-handed and looking poor (or like a thief) to make him buy something.

He shuffled up to the end of the aisle, swinging the awkward basket as a distraction. Before he knew it, Martin had passed the fresh meat, the condiments, the tins. He looked up as he approached the crisps aisle (too much fat, too much choice, too much salt), passed it by and wandered down the pasta aisle. He checked for offers. He compared prices. (A much easier task than most with pasta being sold in so few different package sizes.) He bought the same every week but he had to check, had to be sure. A harried-looking woman pushed her trolley behind Martin but to him, there was only himself and this 4-foot wide section of shelving. Yes. The Tesco Value. Safe. Same.

Martin's fingers ached to pick up the tricolour tortellini next to him, but he blocked it out, and instead reached down for two bags of Tesco Value white pasta.

He raced towards the checkout and through the self-serve, desperate to get to his van before the tears fell.

* * *

_I have a weird liking for Martin dithering over food shopping. So I wrote this. I know it's not the greatest but I'm sick of looking at it so here it is anyway._


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear gemstone1234 requested a sequel and left me a plot bunny, so I wrote this._

* * *

"Er, Douglas, do you think… you could give me a lift home tonight? I-I wouldn't ask, only the van's in for repairs and -"

"Of course, Martin. I need to go shopping on the way back, though."

"Oh, well that's… me too." It wasn't a lie exactly - there was no food in Martin's kitchen except a cupful of pasta, half a litre of milk and a packet of broken biscuits that had been 10p from the reduced-to-clear section - but he had not intended to go shopping yet. He could not afford it yet.

* * *

"Douglas? W-Why are we stopping here?"

"I find I impulse-buy rather too much if I shop on an empty stomach," Douglas replied, turning off the engine and opening his door. "You don't mind, do you? Haven't developed an allergy to deep-fried fish?"

"No, no, of course not," Martin said as he joined Douglas on the pavement. "It's fine. Fine." Martin stopped himself before he could go overboard with his reassurance, but Douglas still gave him a slightly puzzled glance. Thanking his lucky stars that Douglas had not said anything, Martin followed his First Officer into the chippy.

There was a worried frown on Martin's face as he examined the back-lit board behind the counter. God, he felt light-headed. The prices, the_ prices_. He spent less than this on a fortnight's food shopping. His head was spinning.

"Large haddock and chips, and may I say how fetching you look in that apron?"

Martin stared at Douglas in surprise - how on earth could that be a compliment? But there was a particular quirk to his smile that made it a joke, and the 30-something woman shook her head at him, smirking.

"Watch it or I'll spit in your chips," she responded.

How did people do that, Martin wondered. If he tried to make casual conversation he ended up getting flustered and stammering, or accidentally insulting the person's aunt.

The woman turned to scoop chips out of the fryer and added them to a polystyrene box with a long battered fish. "Open or wrapped?"

"Open."

Douglas added salt and vinegar.

"Anything else?"

"Whatever Martin's having," Douglas said, gesturing at him.

Martin started, pulled out of his consideration of whether he could get away with just ordering chips.

"Douglas, you don't -"

"It's all right, I dragged you in here. Haddock?"

* * *

Martin had eaten slowly, ashamed of every last sliver of batter. But he had choked down every bite and now the meal lay heavy and uncomfortable in his stomach as they entered Tesco.

Douglas had mentioned off-handedly that he preferred M&S, but Tesco was on the way to Martin's house. (Martin had only ever been in M&S once in his life, when he needed the loo. He felt too poor even to look at the shelves.)

As they entered, Martin shrank into himself. He could feel his heart rate increasing already. Douglas had picked up one of the half-size trolleys, should he get one? No, no, stick with a basket.

He trailed behind Douglas, his mind buzzing with doubt. The balance of keeping the shop cheap and keeping up appearances. He was still preoccupied with shame about how much he had eaten. He knew Douglas had eaten more but somehow that was okay, it was Martin who had done wrong.

"Martin, are you quite alright?"

Martin jumped guiltily. "I'm fine. Fine. Perfectly. Not a problem. Completely alright."

Douglas raised a gently disbelieving eyebrow. "You're even paler than usual," he pressed.

"I just, I - I don't -" Martin, in the process of avoiding Douglas' eyes, took one look at the neatly stacked packages of butter, and promptly vomited all over the floor.

"Oh, god," he whimpered.

Douglas stared at him in shock. A member of staff eyed him warily, judged him suitably looked-after and not drunk, and slipped away to find the "wet floor" signs.

A hand found Martin's shoulder as he stood frozen in a paroxysm of embarrassment and panic. "I can't." Tears were running down his cheeks; he pressed a violently shaking hand to his mouth, tasting acid and the fish's encore on his tongue.

"Come on, Martin," a voice said gently, and Martin followed the kind voice, allowing himself to be guided by the hand that had slipped to the small of his back. He could barely see, his eyes blurry with tears. It felt like he was walking through a swimming pool, except there were trails of vomit down his clothes.

(Actually, that had happened once. His inner-ear problem had once, as a teen, made him dizzy and disoriented enough to throw up in the swimming pool on a school lesson. He still remembered the screaming as the other kids splashed away from him in horror.)

He found himself walking out of the large automatic doors, into the blissfully cool air of the car park. Douglas led him back to the car, bundled him into the front seat and put the blanket that he kept on the back seat for his daughter over him, all without saying a word. Martin curled into the blanket, the seatbelt digging into his hips as he lifted his feet up onto the seat.

He heard the engine growl as Douglas turned the key. It was not until they had left the car park that Douglas glanced at him and said gently, "What was all that about?"

The urge to just pull the blanket over his head and hide away as though he had never been there was overwhelming, but Martin knew that wouldn't solve anything (and was not very Captain-y, whispered a voice), so instead he sighed deeply. "Shopping. Makes me panic." Martin's eyes were fixed out of the window, watching the alternating patterns of light and dark on the streets, so he did not see the slight frown on Douglas' face as he spoke.

"I see," he said thoughtfully.

"My dad, he, was always very definite about what we were allowed to buy. I don't like… I never know what to choose. There's too much choice."

"You feel out of control?"

"I-I-I don't want to get it wrong."

"I'm not sure the best answer to that was to throw up all over the dairy aisle," Douglas responded drily, and Martin huffed out a little laugh.

"Dramatic, though."

"Oh, certainly. I'm sure the staff will crowd round at break time to watch the CCTV, the young Captain throwing up his fish and chips and his dashing First Officer rescuing him from certain death by embarrassment."

Martin sandwiched his blanket-covered hands between his knees and his face, before twisting his head to watch Douglas drive. It was different to watching him fly (not that he would ever admit to doing so), though the careless concentration, the easy elegance of his movements were the same.

"Douglas… Thank you."

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his friend's mouth. "No problem, Martin. Though I suggest you get a good dry-cleaner for that uniform of yours."

Martin groaned loudly. "Oh god, I threw up on my uniform!"


End file.
